Rain
by Infinitys-End
Summary: Sometimes, it is not desire that drives us, it is necessity.


Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's work – any recognizable characters, scenes, or ideas are his.  I am just playing with them for a while, and will return them when I am done.

Rain

It did not rain today. 

The season of rains is almost over, and we are still as dry as we were during the months of drought.  The shallower oases have dried to pits of cracked mud, and the deeper hollows have become briny and bitter with accumulated salts.  We travel in our little caravans, moving from one shelter along the time-honored path to the next, always thirsty, always questing.  If we do not reach a well-watered oasis soon, I fear our small tribe will become smaller.  I fear we will have to bury the bodies of loved ones in the shifting sands, unmarked, unremembered.

It did not rain today.

The young men quarrel amongst themselves almost constantly now.  They chafe at the constant privation, at the gnawing, clawing thirst that is slowly driving them mad.  Yesterday, blood was drawn over the last water in a small canteen.  The man who owned it lost a finger on his right hand.  The man who lusted after it has lost his freedom and his place in the warrior's ranks.  The water was lost, spilled in the fight, soaking the sands beneath their feet for a brief moment before it evaporated.  Some tried to eat the moist sand, but it dried too quickly.  No one speaks of the fight.  The thought of the precious water, wasted on barren sand, is enough to boil the blood of even the calmest member of our tribe.

It did not rain today.

Five years ago, life was not so hard.  Rain came at its appointed time, and we celebrated its return as we have for generations.  Food was plentiful, even at the smallest oasis on our path, and we ate well. Our children grew strong, or men fought well, and the tribe was unified.  When the strange dark man came, we turned down his offer.  He wanted us to serve his dark lord.  He told us we would be rewarded – that we would be given lands that were always green, and that we would never have to travel again.  We refused, of course.  What need did we have of lands, when we had our path, and our oases, and our life was good?  Why should we settle in one spot, when we were free when we moved from place to place?  As we were, no man owned us, and we could do as we wished.  The dark man said we would rue our decision.  We laughed – oh, how we laughed!  What could this strange man and his distant lord do to us?  The larger tribes left us alone, since though we were small, we were fierce.  The smaller tribes we guarded, and in return, they paid us in food, water, and slaves.  Life was good – we needed no master.  The dark man just smiled, a cold eerie smile that did not reach his eyes, and said he would return, and that the next time we would be wise to accept his offer.  We told him not to bother returning – we were the free people of Harad, and we would not be slaves.

It did not rain today.

The dark man was right.  Now, things have changed.  Our children faint for want of water, our babies wail for the milk their mothers cannot give.  Our men grow grim and forbidding, fighting over the smallest insult.  The smaller tribes now look at us with dark looks, jealous of the water we demand.  They no longer greet us with kindness. The last tribe we visited hid from us – we did not get any water from them.  Our young men begin to say we should accept the dark man's offer when he returns.  We tire of walking, of searching, of sucking on stones to keep our mouths from drying completely.  I have begun to dream of that green land that never dries up.  I dream of deep pools of water where I can splash and soak without worrying about fouling the drinking water, since there is so much water to spare.  I am not the only one to dream this way.  I see the dream in the eyes of others, especially the younger ones.  Perhaps it will not be so bad, serving this dark lord.  We have never seen him here in these desert lands – he may not even bother with us much.  

It did not rain today.

The older members of the tribe, once so revered, warn us against the servitude we begin to long for.  They repeat old tales, tales older than great-grandsires of our oldest elder.  The stories tell of an overlord who nearly drove us to our people to their deaths.  The overlord was vanquished, and those of our kind who remained swore they would never serve another ever again.  The elders tell us to remember that oath, but our ears grow dull as our thirst becomes stronger.  We refuse to listen to their council now.  It does not quench our overwhelming thirst; it does not draw life-giving water from the sky.  We begin to look to the horizon, looking for the dark man to come and lead us to lands that will give us life, to an end to our constant search.  I wonder, during the long chill watches of the night, what this dark lord will ask of us.  Will he demand payment for his kindness, as we do to the lesser tribes?  Will he make us war against others who live in this green land?  I do not wish our men to fight.  Our kind may be fierce, but with our ferocity comes honor, and a code of warfare that I fear the people of the green land will not know.  I fear we will never be able to settle in our green land, for fear of those we must fight to obtain it.

It did not rain today.

Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.


End file.
